


The Great Milwaukee Fiddle Grift

by TheBigCat



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: Cons, Found Family, Gen, Music, Post-First Movie, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBigCat/pseuds/TheBigCat
Summary: Christ, Dylan thinks. These kids are going to be the death of him.
Relationships: Dylan Rhodes & The Horsemen
Comments: 19
Kudos: 100
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Great Milwaukee Fiddle Grift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelogicalghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicalghost/gifts).



> I recently rewatched these movies, and your prompt for found family Horsemen and dad!Dylan caught my eye and wouldn't leave me alone - mainly because you're absolutely right. Dylan has _huge_ dad energy. Happy Yuletide!

Milwaukee is big, but not  _ too _ big. It's busy, but not  _ too  _ busy. And it's not exactly where you'd expect the notorious magical criminal masterminds known as the Four Horsemen – who are, as far as everybody knows at this point, only three in number, their fourth member being quite dead – to hide out for the time being. They've been situated, all four of them, in an apartment looking out over Lake Michigan for the time being – until the Eye deems it appropriate for them to move to more permanent living quarters. And it's not a terrible apartment, but it's not five-star quality either – and Dylan is well aware of the fact that none of them are really very happy with the situation. He's not happy, either – he knows that they'd all much prefer it if they were working on something, anything, and he would much prefer to be helping them work on whatever something that is, be it petty theft or grand crime or even just a mildly interesting magic act. But he's not in charge here, not really. That's all down to the shadowy ringmasters that sit up at the top of the Eye's command, and they, for whatever inscrutable reasons, have decreed that the Horsemen lie low for as long as necessary. He can't do much about that.

What he  _ can _ do, however, is stay in the same city as them. He can visit their apartment as often as he can manage, meet with them in crowded coffeeshops and plazas – not all at the same time, not without considerable disguises – and exchange gossip and card tricks and quiet words of encouragement and tell them,  _ I'm sure they'll be moving us any time soon _ , although he's fully aware of how thin and transparent those platitudes are growing.

He'd like to think they appreciate these visits, because he certainly does – the four of them have grown on him. Slowly at first, and then all at once – he really couldn't imagine how they  _ wouldn't _ have. They're clever and quick and they pulled off his plan with astonishing precision and skill, and, more than that, they have  _ style _ .

He's found himself growing increasingly fond of each of them as the days pass. Henley and her razor-sharp wit and her problem-solving skills and the way her eyes crinkle up at the corners when she's smiling without her mouth. Jack, skittish but confident and always willing to scale a fence into a locked, off-limits area – or, better yet, face the challenge head-on and break the lock in five seconds flat. And he's scarily accurate with a pack of cards, which doesn't hurt. Merritt's somewhat abrasive form of humor paired with his ability to twist just about anything into a joke or quip is delightful on days when Dylan doesn't think he even has the ability to laugh, and he's eternally impressed at just how well he can read people like a book – in this, Merritt manages to outstrip even him, which is impressive in itself. And Danny; poised and tensed like a coiled spring at almost all times – for what, it’s unclear. There’s not much to be ready for at the moment, except the promise of escape – and even that’s distant and unsubstantial. Dylan would say that Danny reminds him of himself, if it didn’t make him sound so weirdly self-flattering – there’s got to be a better way of putting that.

September goes, October comes, and Dylan receives news from a courier – and while it's the news he's been waiting on for months now, it's not the news that he wants or needs. He reads the message three times before it properly registers with him, and after reading it several more times, shreds it to bits and uses the remains as impromptu arson practice, because you can never be too experienced at burning things to a crisp.

He debates it internally for a while – how best to break the news? They're almost certainly not going to want to hear it, just as much as he didn't want to, either – and eventually decides on just biting the bullet, as it were, and giving it to them as plainly and bluntly as he can.

He goes to the lakeside apartment complexes, finds his way to the right apartment and the right floor, and hesitates outside the room before inserting his key into the lock and letting himself in. He doesn't bother knocking. It's only three-thirty in the afternoon. Either they know he's there or they're not paying attention and they need to seriously step up their alertness game.

“Hey,” he says, “hey, I've got something I need to –”

And then he stops, and he narrows his eyes, because none of them are doing their usual thing. Which is to say, the television's off and everything is weirdly neat – no cards lying all over the floor, no half-built models and scribbled schematics on the cramped apartment dining room table, no scorch marks on the ceiling. Nobody's reading books, or sulking in their room, or teaching another person a card or coin or rope trick. In fact, all of them are huddled in the corner around an item lying on the table. There are bags of groceries heaped in a pile on the ground nearby, seemingly abandoned. And until the moment that he had walked in, all four of them had been deep in furious discussion, heads bent inwards, but now they're all staring at him almost guiltily.

“What,” he says, “the hell are you all up to?”

“Nothing,” they all chorus. Jack looks like he's been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Danny just looks annoyed, and Henley looks delighted. Merritt is the only one who's remotely convincing, which means absolutely jack shit.

See, when things like this happen, it's hard for Dylan  _ not _ to feel like a long-suffering parent to all of them. Even though Merritt's actually older than he is. And although this is actually the first time he's walked in on them having an intent discussion around a mystery object, he has been present for a great many similarly wild incidents. A foodfight involving eggs being flung at terrifyingly precise velocity. A game of Scrabble that Danny claimed, afterwards, that he had won in a landslide victory – needless to say, nobody else agreed with him. Petty squabbles over decks of cards and 'wait, that's  _ my  _ trick, how fucking dare you' – they’re children. They are literal children, all of them. How they managed to pull off three consecutive grand heists in succession, even with his planning and guidance, he will never know. And right now, they're all acting exactly like a bunch of guilty fourth-graders who've just been caught doing precisely the thing that they had been instructed not to do.

He brushes aside the multitudes of excuses and explanations that they all start blurting out in his general direction, and goes over to see for himself what they're all arguing over.

And he blinks in surprise. It's definitely not what he expected.

“Huh,” he says.

“...yeah,” agrees Jack.

It's a violin. It's a really super shitty violin. One of the strings is loose and its split, twisted end is bobbing loosely in the air around the scroll, and the wood is cracked and splintered in some places, especially along the side. It looks like it hasn't been cleaned in years, and it rests in an equally dirty and abandoned-looking case.

“Where did you get this?” Dylan asks.

“Henley picked it up while getting groceries,” says Jack.

“I saw it on the side of the road,” Henley says, “and I thought,  _ hey, why not? _ It's not as if we're doing anything else this weekend.”

“It's a piece of junk,” says Danny, folding his arms. His tone of voice very much indicates that this is the exact argument they had been engaged in when Dylan had walked in. “It'll never work. It's a terrible idea!”

Dylan knows what they're arguing about, now. It doesn't take a genius to work it out. It just takes a fellow trickster and con artist. There's only one reason they would have picked up such a terrible, dreadful example of a string instrument and it's the same reason that Danny's so visibly annoyed. And he's right. It's a terrible idea. A really dreadful one.

_ Christ _ , Dylan thinks. These kids are going to be the death of him.

“It doesn't matter how much of a piece of junk it is, Atlas,” Merritt says, one hand against the nearest wall so he can do his usual cocky leaning-to-one-side thing that he does. He's grinning. “The only thing that matters is how convincing the conman is at selling the lie.”

“And we can be very, very convincing,” Henley says. Her eyes are bright with amusement and excitement, practically mirroring Merritt.

“Okay,” says Danny, and pinches the bridge of his nose, “okay, yes,  _ fine, _ I'll grant you that – we're all really disturbingly good at lying, and we probably  _ could _ sell the grift, god willing. But there's actually a really big problem of this fun little activity of yours that you're trying to plan for our night out.”

“Name it,” says Jack.

“Well,” Danny says, sarcasm dripping literally off his every word. “I don't know if you've noticed, but none of us can play the violin. And that does tend to throw a bit of a wrench in this revamp of a classic con where, you know,  _ the whole thing relies on everybody being convinced that you play the violin for a living. _ ”

Dylan feels everyone hesitate; sees the other three Horsemen exchange glances. They're annoyed, but at the same time it's very plain to see that they know Danny's right.

“Well,” says Henley doubtfully. “We don't  _ need _ to play up that bit of the con –”

Jack nods. “It's not like – well, you know, the best cons could use a bit of updating –”

“I've seen people playin' violin before, I could probably fake it in a pinch,” Merritt offers with a slight frown like he can't believe he's suggesting that he makes himself useful.

“No,” says Dylan firmly. “None of you are pretending that you know to play the violin.”

Danny grins fiercely in a brief moment of triumph, then quickly schools his face back into something more impartial. “See, Dylan's backing me up. It's a terrible idea, and we aren't doing it, because it's completely pointless – we don't even need money; you're just suggesting this for the fun of it. We could get our cover blown doing it! Because you want to see if you can! Because you guys are just trying to goof off because you're  _ bored _ .”

“Hey, hey,  _ hey _ ,” Merritt says, raising a finger into the air. “Don't act like you aren't just as bored and restless as the rest of us, because I know for a fact that you absolutely are. Your whole 'the mighty Atlas is above all such human concerns' shtick is getting old fast, Danny-boy.”

“That's – “ Danny, visibly frustrated, scrubs a hand roughly through his hair, which is messier than usual. “ – that's not the point! I just think there's better ways to pass the time.”

“What, all of us cheating at poker at once for the millionth time?” Jack says. “No thanks. That got old fast.”

“I say we grift some poor idiot,” Henley says. “Come on, Dylan, we've been cooped up in here all this time – let us have a little fun for once – “

“Dylan,” Danny says, turning sideways to look at Dylan as well. “This is what I've had to deal with all afternoon. Please, tell them they're all being ridiculous, and make them  _ ditch the damn violin _ .”

Dylan holds back laughter as he realizes that J. Daniel 'Control Freak' Atlas is actually appealing to somebody as a voice of authority. And not just him – the others are sending him fairly heartfelt pleading glances as well. He really  _ does _ feel like a long-suffering parent now.

“Actually,” he says, instead of voicing those thoughts out loud, and reaches over to pick up the offending instrument from its case. Because he’s not like a  _ regular  _ dad. He’s a cool dad. And sometimes being a cool dad means horrifying and shocking your accidentally-adopted, fully-grown children by doing exactly what they don’t want you to do. “It's funny you should mention that none of you know how to play the violin...”

Danny's expression shifts almost instantly to comical, overwhelming horror. “Dylan. Dylan,  _ no. _ Dylan, please –”

Dylan can't help the grin that falls over his face as Jack whoops and bounces on the balls of his feet before raising a hand up for a high-five that Merritt (somewhat indulgently) meets. Henley is laughing too.

“Dylan's aboard!” she crows, triumphant. “The con is on!”

In stark contrast to his compatriots' enthusiasm, Danny looks like he's about to lose his god damn mind. He valiantly, although visibly, manages to restrain his emotions, and says, “Dylan, I – I don't understand. Pulling off a grift in a city like this is  _ risky _ . We could get caught or exposed, or – I don't even know what would happen. Won't the Eye be angry about this?”

Jack stops bouncing for a second, and casts a worried look in Dylan's direction. “I mean, he does have a point.”

Dylan balances the slight weight of the violin in one hand, holding it lightly by the neck. There's no shoulder-rest. It isn't technically needed, but it does mean that playing it is going to be distinctly more uncomfortable than it would otherwise be. He reaches into the case, and tugs out the bow, which is in far better condition than the violin itself, thankfully. He's doing all of this and he's thinking, because if he tells them the whole truth, the mood of the room – the energy, the enthusiasm, all of it – is going to shift, and drastically. And it's selfish, but he doesn't want that to happen. He wants to keep this lovely bright moment, live in it forever. If he tells them the whole truth, there's no way he'll get to go out with them tonight and be in the middle and heart of one of their plans – instead of on the sidelines, where he's always been up until now.

“I normally would be worried, yeah,” he says, and starts trying to tune the violin by ear. Harder than it looks, which is saying a lot. And no fine-tuning at the tailpiece, either. “But the thing is – well, I was literally about to tell you, that's why I came over. You're getting moved in two days. We're getting out of Milwaukee.” He lifts the violin to his shoulder, and plucks across the strings in an inelegant, slightly out-of-tune arpeggio. He raises an eyebrow at them. “So I don't think it'll matter if we end up causing a bit of controlled chaos tonight, right?”

⁂

They don't plan for this as much as they usually would, mainly because most of the scheme is already laid out for them. It's an old con, so tried and true it even has a slot on a Wikipedia page somewhere confirming it. But the main reason the Horsemen had wanted to run it (Dylan quickly realizes) is that none of them had ever actually done it before. And with good reason – it's old enough that the presence of the internet and all the information and knowledge that comes with it is often enough to throw a spanner in the works. They  _ could  _ try updating it. But Henley is unwavering on the fact that she wants to try pulling it off like a classic con-artist would, so really all they can do is find a place and pick a mark and see how it all goes down.

So everyone dons disguises of some sort – Henley wraps a thick cream-colored scarf around her neck and lower part of her face and dons large sunglasses, Merritt swaps out his trademark bowler hat for a beanie, Jack and Danny swap their typical clothing styles with each other – and with Dylan in somewhat shabbier clothing than usual and toting a violin case that looks more beat up than the Horsemen's legal reputation, they set out in search of a suitable mark.

They find themselves down in Riverwest at around six PM, and, after a quick, murmured exchange of words in an alleyway out of everyone's sight, split off in different directions. Everybody has a part to play tonight, after all, and if they're all seen together it could ruin the plan in a million different ways.

Dylan is alone for the first part, although he's perfectly aware that at least two of the others are watching, concealed from sight. This suits him fine; he's always been good at acting solo.

He finds a suitable spot on one of the main roads, near where all the major bars and cafes of Riverwest are, and sets down his case, toeing the latch open. Nobody really pays him much mind – he's not exactly doing much worth noticing yet, after all. Well, he'll just have to see about that.

Slowly, almost reverently, he removes the violin and bow, brushing off dust and rubbing at a spot of grime on the body of the violin with a dab of spit. He glances at all of the passers-by with a bit of a self-conscious smile, takes a step so he's standing right behind the open, empty case, and starts to play Vivaldi's  _ Summer _ .

It's been a while since he's picked up a violin to play, and so the first few bars are somewhat rusty, but it really is just like riding a bike. Soon enough he's remembered how to shiver his left wrist in that particular way that makes the strings ring with vibrato, and the muscle memory has taken over. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the music, and for the rest of the song he dedicates himself.

When it's over, he looks down at his case. Someone's thrown in a penny or two, and there's a gum wrapper that wasn't there before. Disappointing, but not surprising. He raises the violin to his shoulder once more, and tightens the bow-strings.

An elegant-looking young woman with a beautiful cream scarf looped around her neck approaches, and bends down slightly to drop a five-dollar bill into the violin case, much to Dylan's obvious gratitude.

“Your playing's beautiful,” says Henley, and when she glances up he can see her eyes over her sunglasses, and the smile that she gives him reaches them. Her compliment isn't an act.

“Thank you, young lady,” Dylan says, returning the smile. He forces down his normal accent, brings a bit of a Minnesotan drawl into it. He’s a local, just like any of these other folks on the street, that’s all.

“If you take requests – do you know  _ Devil Went Down To Georgia _ ?”

_ That's a bit on the nose,  _ Dylan thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. This hadn’t been part of the hurried script they’d worked out ahead of time, but he does know the song and Henley seems to be genuinely interested in what he can do, so he nods, and he says, “sure, let’s see how this goes,” and tugs over a loose piece of scrap metal from nearby, before kicks it into place nearby the violin case, and he's ready to go.

With a few decisive taps of his foot to the metal, the improvised drumline is now ringing out across the street, and then the bow skims across the strings, and the melody is flowing out like fruity wine - sweet and bright and quick. It's actually an old favorite of his, and even as Henley takes a few steps back and loses herself in the chaos of the passers-by, more people take her place, pausing and sticking around to watch.

Dylan throws himself into the energy of the performance with all the fervor and pizzazz that he'd light up a magic act with. He extends the fiddle solo a bit more than necessary, realizing halfway through that he's going to have to sing to really sell it. This really wasn't in the plan – he's supposed to be a violin virtuoso, not a musician-of-all-trades – but needs must. His voice isn't quite as good as his violin-playing but he manages to belt it out nonetheless. It's not like the song requires much actual singing, anyway.

Dylan loves performing – loves putting on a show, constructing an other self for him to become for a few hours or a decade or two – and he so rarely gets a chance to entertain in such a plain, simple, and utterly joyful way. He lets that leak into what he’s doing. The energy and enthusiasm he exhibits is infectious enough that by the time he gets to the second chorus some of the passers-by aren't just tossing a few cents and dollars into his case – some of them are actually clapping along and bobbing their heads and laughing and applauding as he switches from singing to shredding reckless melodies on the violin and back again and sometimes doing both at once, for good measure. And Dylan does end up dropping some lyrics and notes, missing them and messing them up, but he makes it to the end – finishing off with a squeal of strings and a flurry of off-beat metal banging for good measure – to scattered applause and some whoops and cheering. And the breathless grin he directs out at his audience as he bows isn't faked in the least. He hasn't had a chance to perform like this in quite some time, and it's astonishingly invigorating, having such an enthusiastic reception. God bless the people of Riverwest, Milwaukee.

He plays some more songs, taking shouted requests from people watching – keeps going like this for maybe half an hour more. As he finishes up a particularly roughly improvised rendition of  _ Danse Macabre _ , he catches a glimpse of Danny amongst his makeshift audience, and he looks genuinely impressed – nodding at Dylan with approval and something that might actually be respect in his eyes. Dylan quirks an eyebrow back in faint amusement, but doesn't do much more than that for fear of blowing his cover, flimsy as it is. Instead, he watches and takes note as Danny jerks his head in the direction of one particular overpriced-looking bar, across the street from where Dylan is.

Showtime, then, Dylan thinks, and starts packing up the violin and thanking his audience – and this time it's the  _ real _ show, not just the warmup.

⁂

Ideally, it's a two-man con. It's one of those cons that works best with just you and a partner, and especially when the two of you are desperate for cash and have just found some third-rate violin lying on the side of the road or in some thrift store for thirty or forty bucks. (The Horsemen, tonight, are playing this game with four more people than you’d typically need to get it right, which either makes it a whole lot easier or a whole lot harder, depending on who you’d ask.)

This is how it’s supposed to go.

Your first man, posing as a down-on-his-luck violinist by trade and by passion, heads into a restaurant or bar – any one that looks upscale and expensive and maybe just a bit snobby, that’s the sort of place that does the trick. He orders, eats, enjoys the meal, but oh no, what’s that? It seems that he’s left his wallet at home, and what a shame too because the money he’s just made from busking outside isn’t quite enough to cover the bill. He’s so sorry, so dreadfully sorry – but wait, wait, how about this, he’ll just pop home and snag his wallet – it’s only a few blocks away, after all! He’ll be right back, just you watch.

But wait, the owner of the bar or restaurant or whatever upscale snazzy establishment the conmen have picked as their target – and this person is the mark, so pay close attention – how do I know that you’ll come back? Well, it really is simple – he’ll leave his violin, his precious fiddle, behind as collateral. It’s his only worldly possession and it’s worth more to him than anyone can possibly imagine, but he’ll leave it behind because he’s honest and he doesn’t want to cheat the barowner, not in the least, no sir.

And this, of course, is when the second conman strikes.

⁂

The meal had been pretty good, actually – despite its frankly extravagant pricing. And playing the violin takes up a lot of energy, more than you might think, so Dylan hadn’t even needed to fake the whole ‘being ravenously hungry’ bit. By his judging, the barman – picked by Jack and Danny, as they had previously planned to – is really quite an excellent mark. Suspicious but quietly greedy in that way that middle-aged white barowners tend to be.

So when Dylan digs desperately through his pockets, searching for a wallet that he knows isn’t there, and leaves the violin on the bartop with the owner, and hurries out towards the door, he knows already that the owner won’t give it a second glance without a push. And he also knows that a push is incoming, from someone who really is quite good at pushing people to do things. Merritt’s sitting at the other end of the bar, has been doing so for about an hour now. Longer than Dylan’s been outside on the street, definitely. Dylan doesn’t even give him the slightest of glances as he leaves, heading out onto the street. He doesn’t need to; he already knows he’s there and ready to go.

Merritt had been the obvious choice for the second part of this grift, because – well, he’s  _ Merritt.  _ He radiates a kind of bizarre charm and trustworthiness – if you don’t know him, anyway. Anyone that has a genuine conversation with him for more than a minute has that immediate conception dispelled pretty quickly if he hasn’t already put you into a trance so deep you’d need several miles of rope to pull yourself out of it.

Henley had wanted to do it initially, but basic social psychology says that generally speaking, people are less likely to trust a woman’s Expert Opinion, and as harsh as that is it’s also just a basic fact of society. So it’s Henley, along with Jack – Danny watching the actual bar from across the street, of course – who meets Dylan two streets over and hands over the phony wallet that they’re using for this grift, and it’s Jack who asks, “do you think he bought it?”

“Hard to tell,” Dylan says, trying to tidy up his hair before remembering that he’s supposed to be dishevelled and untidy, and messes it back up again. “Really, it’s all down to Merritt at this point.”

“God help us all,” Henley deadpans, and Jack laughs.

⁂

The second conman tries his best not to look like a conman, because tonight he’s a professional of some description – a museum curator, an avid collector, whatever works and whatever seems believable. He slides up to the mark, says,  _ say I couldn’t help but noticing, that’s a mighty fine violin you got there, may I have a look?  _ – and then sets about inspecting it with a sharp, keen eye. He’ll examine it for a good few minutes, eyes getting wider and wider, before turning to the mark and saying,  _ why, this is worth nearly ten thousand dollars! –  _ or twenty, or fifty, or however high the grifters are willing to gamble their way up to. (The Horsemen had agreed on fifty thousand, but only because Merritt’s exceptionally skilled at what he does and could probably sell someone their own grandmother – and rumour has it that he did just that in his younger days.)

The second man continues his spiel, becoming more and more enthusiastic as he does. He would just  _ love  _ to meet the owner of this violin, would be willing to pay Insert Amount Here, See Above to buy it off them, but oh no – what’s that? He has a flight to catch, or an appointment he absolutely  _ must  _ get to in time, and he needs to go, immediately.

And so the second man slides a business card over to the mark, with a name and a number that are both very, very fake and, if everything goes to plan, will never be checked. The second man asks the mark to give the number to the violin’s owner and call him later, so they can work out a deal.

And then the second man leaves, and it’s all fingers crossed for whether the mark is greedy enough to take the bait or not. Statistically speaking, they almost always will be. But it’s never a certain thing. And not every mark is completely predictable, no matter how closely you study them.

⁂

Merritt comes hurrying in their direction, with that absurdly calm expression of his that he only wears when things have gone absolutely tits-up, shit's-just-hit-the-fan, we-should-all-probably-start-running-now wrong. His head looks all wrong with the beanie in place of the bowler hat, Dylan notes to himself, and then stops making absent observations and starts paying attention as Danny rounds the corner behind him, wearing a more subdued version of the same  _ oh shit _ expression. “You guys're early. Isn't it–?”

“Good news, folks,” Merritt says loudly, cutting over him. “We picked the one goddamned bar in the state where the owner is not only exceptionally brilliant at brewing overpriced, shitty beer, but is  _ also _ an expert in antique string instruments.”

In response, everybody groans, and there's scattered cursing as both Danny and Merritt draw level with the group.

“What the hell happened?” Henley demands.

“It took the guy about thirty seconds to clock what I was doing,” Merritt says, looking annoyed. “Told me to get out and to take that garbage excuse for a violin with me.

“But you just left it?” Jack says.

“Well, yeah,” says Merritt. “He's right. It  _ is _ a garbage excuse for a violin.”

Danny grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dylan kind of wants to tell him not to take this so seriously; it's just a leisure con and they don't actually need the money or anything. Dropping and running right now wouldn't affect them or anyone else. But the truth is that he's feeling just as annoyed and thrown-off, and he'd bet anything that the rest of the Horsemen feel the same way.

“You couldn't have, I don't know, used your spooky psychic powers on the guy?” Danny's asking Merritt in that testy way of his. “You're supposed to be good at that, or so you've mentioned a million times –”

“Okay, wow, harsh – and there were at least twenty other people in there, most of them paying attention. I'd like to see  _ you _ mass-hypnotize a crowded bar into believing a piece of junk's a Stradivarius without anybody catching on. It's harder than you'd think.” Merritt sounds more than a bit testy himself.

“All right, ladies, you're both beautiful, pack it in,” Henley interrupts. “We all knew it probably wasn't going to work from the start, so, let's just call it a night, yeah? We can go back to the apartment, get crazy drunk, cheat at Monopoly or something, and in two days we'll be out of here and we can try it again, with better planning.”

“We're doing this  _ again _ ?” Danny says, and he sounds a mixture of delighted and horrified. But Dylan's barely listening. He's staring off in the direction of the bar, the bar that still has the terrible dreadful violin in it, no doubt lying on the counter.

The Horsemen are making plans to get back to the apartment and pick up some alcohol on the ways, and Dylan speaks up and says, “I'll meet you guys there.”

“Sure,” says Henley, adjusting her scarf, and then, “where are you going?”

“I'm gonna grab that violin,” he says. “It'll only take me a minute or so – like I said, meet you guys at the apartment.”

There's a bit of a stunned silence, and then Jack says, “uh, Dylan, no offense, but –  _ why _ ?”

Merritt nods. “Yeah, did you miss the whole 'garbage excuse for a violin' bit? It isn't worth shit.”

Dylan can’t explain it, not really. It’s something like sentiment, if he had to put a name to it. Playing that violin on the street had been something special, something really special. The glint of Henley’s eyes behind the sunglasses and Danny’s look of approval stick in his mind, and he has the selfish notion of maybe being able to perform for the others, too, once they get back to the apartment. It might be nice to take requests and goof around and show off for a little bit without having to affect an accent or persona. But he can only do that once he’s got the violin back, which – “yeah, I know, but if we’re not getting money for it, I might as well head back and pick it up. It’s not like they’re going to stop me, right?”

It’s funny just how wrong one person can be.

⁂

The grift has failed for tonight, but ideally –  _ ideally – _ you can rely on the fact that people are, well, people. Fundamentally greedy and flawed, willing to do anything for a quick buck or thousand. The first person will come back a little after the second has left, toting the money necessary for their meal to be paid off. And hopefully –  _ hopefully  _ – the mark will choose this point to chip in. God willing, they’ll offer to buy the violin off him. They’ll haggle, because that violin is worth more to the violinist than anyone can possibly imagine, but eventually they’ll reach a consensus. A tidy sum. A good three, four, five thousand dollars. Higher if the scam artists are clever and smooth with their words.

The conclusion of all this? The conmen walk away a couple thousand dollars richer, and the mark tries to sell the worthless piece of scrapwood at the local antique shop, and is told that it would barely scrape fifty bucks, and that’s if they’re being generous. And everyone is happy except for the mark.

That’s how it should go, in a perfect world – perfect for the grifters, at least. But the world isn’t perfect for anyone, and nothing ever really works out the way that you planned, and Dylan is about to get that gently shoved in to his face tonight in a very definite way – as if the universe is trying to tell him,  _ look, I’m trying to make a point here – listen up, will you? _

Here’s how it goes.

⁂

Dylan enters the bar with every intention of grabbing the violin case and getting the hell out of dodge, but nothing of the sort happens, because the moment he sets foot inside the premises, the barowner says, “ _ Hey. _ You.”

He avoids eye contact, and tries to speedwalk over to the case on the other side of the bar, but he freezes. The barowner is leaning over the counter, and now he has a shotgun in his hands, and by the way he's holding it he absolutely does know how to use it.

“Oh, shit,” Dylan says, silently cursing terrible American gun laws.

“You thought you could try to scam me with the old fiddle trick?” the barowner snaps.

Dylan falters. He had been so caught up in the failure of the trick and the desire to retrieve the violin that he had forgotten the potential consequences to his actions. “To be fair, you did let me leave it behind while I, uh, 'got my wallet' –”

“I sure did,” he says. “So, pay up.”

Dylan... doesn't actually have the money to pay up. He had passed their phony wallet back to Henley when it had become clear that they wouldn't be going any further with the plan, and he isn't carrying any other cash on him because he hadn't  _ needed _ any. “Uh,” he says. “Hm. Bit of a problem there, actually – it's rather a funny story –”

“ _ Pay. Up _ .” The shotgun goes  _ ker-chunk _ , and Dylan's heart leaps into his throat. His eyes go to the violin, which is a stupid thing to do because the easiest way to not get shot right now is to just skedaddle right back out of those doors and run back for home territory. But that's the coward's route, and by God, Dylan Shrike isn't a coward in any sense of the word. He thinks about the flash paper up his sleeve and about pulling a dangerous stunt with some of the tablecloths nearby, and is just about to start setting fire to things with extreme prejudice and terrifying accuracy, when the universe – or, more specifically, his dumbass kids – intervene for him.

“ _ Hey _ ,” says a voice, and there's Jack Wilder in the doorway, brandishing a handful of 1996 green Bicycle playing cards like shuriken. He's glaring. “Step away from our dumbass leader.”

Which, ouch. But also, he had just gone back to the site of a failed grift for a shitty 20-buck violin, so maybe it’s not entirely unfounded.

The barowner doesn’t look impressed by the cards Jack is holding, but Dylan knows that Bicycle cards sting like a bitch and in the right hands are even better than knives, so he’s staking his money on Jack in the case of dramatic confrontation.

No dramatic confrontation does end up happening, because it’s at this point that Merritt steps into the bar too, and – without missing a beat – goes up directly to the barowner, all welcoming smiles and hard edges. Danny's suddenly on the other side of the bar, having arrived there without alerting literally anyone's attention – but to be fair to Dylan, he's a bit distracted at the moment – and he scoops up the violin case by the handle without a word, and nods before ducking through the back door.

They're making a scene. Someone's dialling a number on their phone – almost certainly the police – but it's impossible for them to stop  _ that _ from happening. Instead of dealing with any of that directly, Henley and Jack both grab Dylan, one on each arm, and drag him out the front door and onto the street. They hesitate for a second as Danny catches up, and Dylan looks back through the windows to see Merritt pressing the barowner up against a wall, mouth moving fast and gaze intent and the owner utterly trapped in it, and, well – the guy just pointed a gun at him, so whatever Merritt's doing to him is okay in Dylan's book.

Sirens. Ah, the police – that was fast.

“Run,” suggests Jack.

“Running sounds excellent,” Dylan says.

“Running it is,” Henley says, and then they're dashing through the streets of Riverwest in a tightly-knit pack, and seconds later Merritt catches up to them with a wicked glint in his eye that means he’s absolutely just done something horrifically evil that will have long-term consequences. The wind is messing up all of their hair, and Henley’s scarf is coming unravelled, and they really should split up at this point if they don’t want to be recognized, but there’s something delightfully familiar and  _ right  _ about being chased through the streets by law enforcement, giggling like children all the way. And this time, Dylan isn’t the one doing the chasing – he gets to be right there, in the middle of it, and he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything else in the world.

⁂

They spill into the dark apartment, laughing and clutching at each other's arms for balance. Even Danny's chuckling, and he looks absolutely flushed and buzzed with the energy of the night, just like everyone else. Dylan's got the battered violin case tucked under an arm, and he places it down on a side table to mess around with later.

Henley stumbles over to the wall and she flicks on the light, before joining everyone where they've already collapsed messily onto the couches and chairs in the cramped, messy living room.

“Absolutely  _ not _ worth it,” Jack says, gesturing animatedly at the ceiling. “That was – no. I don't care  _ how _ good you made it sound on the street, that's the most run-down piece of shit violin I've ever seen, it's no wonder he saw through you instantly!”

Merritt flicks an empty can of beer in Jack's direction, catching him on the leg. “He was a  _ violin expert _ , Jack-In-The-Box – next time you can be the one trying to con him out of fifty grand!”

They keep on arguing but Dylan's barely listening and barely contributing. He's just lying there on his back, legs sprawled out over length of the couch and poking slightly into Danny's side (although the other man isn't complaining or trying to shove him off), looking up at nothing and grinning like an absolute lunatic and not even caring if the others notice because, see, here's the thing, he's just  _ overwhelmed _ with emotion right now. It's sort of like joy and sort of like love, but with quite a lot of amazed affection thrown in there for good measure. God. Jesus, god, fuck, he loves them so much, just –  _ so _ much. These crazy, crazy kids with their card tricks and misdirection and escape-artistry and mind games – they're so good at what they do and so clever, and they just swept in to pull him out of a shitty, dumb situation like it was absolutely nothing, and –

“I'm so proud of you guys,” he says, interrupting whatever meaningless thing they're currently arguing about now. “Super proud. I know I haven't said that yet, and – yeah. I need you to know that. You've done a  _ great _ job.”

There's a pregnant pause for a moment or two as the four of them exchange bewildered and bemused glances.

“Well – thanks, mom?” Merritt says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, not that the validation is nice, but –” Jack shrugs. “Not gonna lie, that was kind of out-of-nowhere. You good, man?”

“Yeah,” says Dylan, his smile fading as he’s hit by a sudden wave of guilt and melancholy like a physical blow to the chest. “Yeah, I'm good.”

He’s not good. Not in any sense of the word.

See, in two days, the Eye is moving them. All of them – and to wildly different locations, this time. The Horsemen remaining together like this is too much of a security risk. No contact is going to be allowed for maybe months on end. Not even Dylan is going to be able to visit. He hates the very thought – and he knows already that they're going to like it even less. Living for over a year together in close quarters fosters a sense of codependency, of family – and even though at least half of would deny it vehemently, Dylan’s pretty sure that none of them want to leave it behind in favour of being alone.

He looks over at them – at Jack, who’s now flicking cards with terrifying accuracy at a protesting Danny, who’s catching about three-quarters of them as they come and getting smacked in the face and arms and throat by the other quarter, and at Henley, who’s half curled-up, head resting on Merritt’s knee as the two of them quietly chat, both uncharacteristically unguarded. He sees Jack turn and wave him, Dylan, over to join in with the Danny-tormenting fun – and he says, “yeah, just a second – “ (much to Danny’s brewing horror) – and he thinks  _ no, not yet. _

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow he’ll tell them, and tomorrow he’ll endure the questions and the anger and the glares from all of them, and he’ll hide the fact that he’s just as miserable with the arrangement as they are. But for tonight, it’s just the five of them in a cramped apartment, and for just about the first time since his father drowned and his mother went mad with grief, he’s finally starting to understand what family is.

Dylan gets up and goes to help Jack bully Danny with cards – to Merritt and Henley’s combined whoops and cheers, and he forces down that bubbling, seething guilt into the darkest pit of his psyche until it’s finally quiet and he can enjoy his evening in peace.

Tomorrow. It’ll all come falling apart tomorrow.


End file.
